


Tragedy of Arthur, Prince of Albion

by WhatADeer



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 14:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20010139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatADeer/pseuds/WhatADeer
Summary: There was much yelling these days, and much silence. It bounced off the walls of his mind and stirred it up, stirred it like rose water and tonic, like new shirts in red dyes, like brains in the soupy heads of dead friends, but there was little time for that now. Merlin was gone, and Arthur would have him back again if it took a hundred soldiers, a hundred kingdoms, a hundred years.-In which Merlin is missing, and Arthur relies on dreams and visions to hunt him down.





	Tragedy of Arthur, Prince of Albion

"What is it? What's wrong with him?"

The king's voice was firm and insistent. The doctor did not waver.

"Nothing, sire," he said. The king raged.

"Some enchantment? Some-- curse?"

Arthur stopped listening long ago, his father railing on and on. He found no friend in the doctor, now that Gaius was gone. His gaze swept over the vacant expressions of those present, those impoverished strangers tucked away into corners and flitting through doors. There was not a kind eye among them. 

Arthur found no friend in the servants, now that Merlin was gone.

"My physical examination has found nothing amiss with the temporal body," the doctor was saying. "However, the matter of his mental state-"

The king lifted his hand, and the man fell silent. He would not hear the word again, nay, even the suggestion. Arthur was not mad.

The servants grew stranger. The doctor, fidgeting, studied him with wary eyes. Arthur had grown tired of this routine; Merlin was, too, wherever he was.

"Majesty," he interjected, "I've another party out at dusk." As he rose, the king rose with him. 

“You'll do no such thing.”

Yet, Arthur turned his back. Uther's voice echoed off the cold stone again and again against Arthur’s indignant skull.

"How many will die for your boyish conquest?" Despite the protests of the king, however, the prince was walking, was through the door, was gone.

"Lead selfishly, and see where your lot falls!"

Uther was yelling through the door. There was much yelling these days, and much silence. It bounced off the walls of his mind and stirred it up, stirred it like rose water and tonic, like new shirts in red dyes, like brains in the soupy heads of dead friends, but there was little time for that now. Merlin was gone, and Arthur would have him back again if it took a hundred soldiers, a hundred kingdoms, a hundred years.

-

To the south. They were close. Arthur had been dreaming for days, for weeks, in the direction of Ealdor. Merlin must be there, nursing wounds or other such necessary dawdling. Someone must have seen him, perhaps seen something related- maybe he had been captured by a band that had passed through, maybe he had called for help or slipped a message that had only now reached Camelot, maybe his father was behind all this, maybe, maybe, and around in circles they went. 

Arthur didn’t speak of his dreams. He didn’t bother; no one would understand. They wouldn’t follow him if he told, not these new men, these shadows of lions’ hearts. If Arthur had ever believed in anything, he believed in the sword, the cycles of the sun, the magic that haunted his history. Perhaps not Merlin’s magic, not for a long time, but Arthur knew fear, and magic was a weapon worth reckoning in the hands of a wild man. Merlin wasn’t wild, though. He was stubborn and foolish and good, loyal, a liar, a friend. A coward.

Last time Arthur had seen Merlin, the world was gold with light, and a wild man afraid.

Not Ealdor. Further east. They were close.

-

Another dream. A week in the woods, another, the men were tired. They would have to resupply soon. He began to doubt whether his party was even trying- sooner doubt them than himself, sooner doubt them than this supernatural pull the ground had on his feet to move forward, to turn, to move again, another way, _ please let this be the right way _ . 

In his sleep were groves of stone, forests of castles and pyres that wound upon themselves into a labyrinth of his own house, his own chambers. Merlin flitting in and out of sight like the people who had replaced him, Merlin’s sunshine smile and outstretched hands, Merlin’s starry eyes glinting mischievous in the night plagued Arthur in waking. At the end of his journey, he would get only so close as to wish to catch him, hold him in his arms before the day came and Merlin was lost to him again. As the days wore on, the months wore, too, and Merlin stopped smiling, twisted his face in pain and the world burst in white. All the while, he eluded the prince, he ran, and what was once a nymph’s game became a chase after whatever beast was responsible for this. He would have him again. He would have him again.

Merlin wanted to be saved.

There’s nothing here. Must turn back. There are children at home.

-

“Then I’ll go alone,” Arthur was saying, but no one heard. Morgana pitied him, but she didn’t listen. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“I hardly recognize you.”

There was something in her voice, more than pity, maybe horror. Maybe mourning. What she really said was, “That’s the problem,” but the accusation in her eyes, judging him unfit, unwell,  _ lost  _ only served to irritate him. He knew what she was really saying. You’re worse than father, he had thought, but maybe he said it, too. Maybe he mocked her. Arthur didn’t remember.

Morgana didn’t speak to him again.

Once more. Merlin was in trouble; he had already wasted so much time. A full year, who knew how he had fared over winter, how his captors had mistreated him, whether or not he had escaped? To Ealdor again, just to check. If Merlin had gotten away, that may well be the first place he would go. This time, he would leave a notice with someone, anyone, to alert Camelot if any sign of Merlin came up. Arthur didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that sooner.

The dreams were every night, sometimes in the day, too. Arthur didn’t talk about it. Merlin was guiding him with magic, he must be, and every step he took felt closer to where he needed to be, where Merlin needed him, was looking for him in turn.

He dreamt now of closer things, less monoliths and confusion and more warmth, focused on Merlin’s hands, the chips in his nails, the worry lines in his mouth. There was less running these days, less fighting past the walls of his mind and heart to get to these glimpses of someone he needed so much. At night, when he closed his eyes, Merlin was still out of reach, but solid, and there. Arthur knew if he could just touch him once, a graze of skin, his search would be over. He would know where to go, finally. He will have found him, and that dream would be the one that wouldn’t end- wouldn’t change. Change they did, though, before dawn, when sweet words and gentle instruction gave way to screams of terror and pillars of blinding light.

The earlier days of this nightmare were better. Arthur had been fueled by righteous anger and purpose; the visions were infuriating in their vagueness, but spurred him on. A year later, the prince is weary. Merlins in his mind’s eye multiply and offer him kisses they never deliver, leave him burning but with no direction. Arthur Mad-King he is called in whispers, with luck his father will never die.

Screaming in the night. Screaming in the day. He thinks, perhaps, he will choose some new name. Listening to Merlin cry for him in agony, bitterness, he thinks even betrayal, leaves  _ Arthur _ with a curse on his lips. Then again, Merlin could call him nothing but his name, and were  _ Arthur _ someone else, anyone else, he may not be able to stand it. The thought of Merlin begging help of anyone made him sick, but the idea that he had called for anyone but him, had doubted his prince, friend, leader, lover would come is worse. If  _ Arthur _ is what Merlin chose to call him, so be it, but these days, he thinks,  _ Arthur _ , Mad King, will never sound the same.

With luck, his father will never die. Arthur has yet to muster the courage to kill him himself.

-

They had let him pass through a hundred times, a thousand times. He had sent men to inquire and gotten nothing back. Set foot in the town himself and he was met with crude swords and cold eyes, with a fire so bright it hurt his heart, and he could hear screaming.

It happened in Ealdor: a martyr’s fire, by which villagers wailed and sobbed and Hunith stared with dignity into the flames.

“You ate at my table,” and Arthur was on his knees. “You murdered my son.”

A martyr’s fire to mark the day, and words that would follow him til he died. Arthur left; he was not welcome here. 

He left, but he did not turn his back.

-

He couldn’t go back to Camelot. Arthur saw him everywhere now, in the trees, the streams, the mud clinging to his boots and all day, every day,  _ Arthur _ , images of those coarse hands clawing at a stake. His father, afraid, the world all gold with the power of a wild man with some flint and stone, and Merlin, Merlin  _ screaming _ . No dignity. No romance or thoughtful last words. Only  _ Arthur, Arthur, _ and memories he couldn’t stand to remember that he now can never forget.

Arthur no longer sleeps. His nights are too bright; the days bleed together. He wishes he were dead.

At least then, he could hold him once more. Then again, Arthur would never be able to look him in the face, never be able to truly say he had done his best. He had failed. He had watched, and listened, and for eons afterward pretended himself a hero. To see Merlin again would be the most unworthy heaven and greatest hell, to look his gravest sin the eyes and be unable to apologize for the right thing, for honor thy father and mother, for lead a family and a nation, and instead plead forgiveness for burn the witch, plead for not being enough.

-

There, beyond the trees, stands Merlin. He offers his hand, warm and real in the soft autumn sun. He looks sorry. He looks excited. Arthur reaches up from the dregs of mud and war, and weeps.


End file.
